


too far out and so far gone

by kuro49



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Pacific Rim (2013) RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, M/M, pacific rim kinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t so much that they look like father and son, it is that they are playing exactly that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too far out and so far gone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme prompt: [[RPF] Rob Kazinsky/Max Martini, maybe underlying Herc/Chuck?](http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/2747.html?thread=4198331#t4198331) _they hang out in between filming so we all know they're pretty tight. so what if the tension from that deleted Hansens scene (or even the scene where Herc holds Chuck back from hitting Raleigh again) kind of hangs around right after and it's suddenly awkward between them because of it. so one of them does something about it and makes a move._
> 
> _bonus points if it occurs to them that the tension and... ensuing fling... kind of points to the high potential of Hansen incest at the end and they laugh nervously about it_
> 
> So it seems that I've done it, and I would apologize if I hadn’t been going through a Martini withdrawal. On a more serious note, I am really twitchy at the improper use of the Pacific Rim RPF tag and all the non-RPF fics in it.

On closer inspection, the cuts and smears of blood are all makeup.

Max knows that on every level of his conscious mind but that doesn’t make him want to reach out even closer to touch the other any less. Max wants to cross that short distance between them, to swipe away the red from Rob’s cheekbones. Pad of his thumb rubbing away the lesion lines, if only to confirm that his co-star isn’t hurt for himself.

It is irrational, that’s what it is.

Especially when he has Rob’s shirt clenched in one hand, the length of his arm across his chest. Holding him back with all his strength to get that perfect shot, Max only remembers that he is still in front of the camera when Rob turns his gaze to him. Because that isn’t anyone but Chuck Hansen with all the betrayal and vulnerability on display like he is on the centrefold of magazines.

Then again, it isn’t Max Martini holding that gaze, it is Hercules Hansen (and what a name _that_ was). At the end of his rope, a father pushed too far and not far enough. Another inch upwards and Max will have his arm over Rob’s throat. Another centimetre of pressure will have him cutting off his oxygen supply entirely.

But he doesn’t move, and he lets the father and son struggle for a moment longer.

Voiceless in their want, and angry enough to swallow that single plead for what they really need the most.

When his voice finally cuts through the tension with lines memorized by too many nights spent reading through the script, it is also with an air of military precision that he’s slipped into too many times before. He doesn’t know whether it is Rob or Chuck that flinches, that barest amount that only he catches because he is pressed so close. (Max doesn’t understand why he feels a spark of heat at the sight of it.)

He only knows that there is distance between the two of them before he finally lets himself breathe again.

 

On the set, it has always been easy.

Rob is not one bit like Chuck until the cameras start rolling, and Chuck will never be the kind of man that Rob is. Max likes the stark difference, the sharp change, the tension and fear dropping away from those shoulders the moment Del Toro shouts _cut!_ and Rob is turning to him with a grin.

Even in that obnoxious bomber jacket with the Hansens’ kills stamped across the back in fading white, Robert Kazinsky manages to look sweet enough. Max watches as Rob rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, standing next to the director, hovering as he listens and watches the clip replay.

And Max has to shove his hands into his back pockets, if only so he doesn’t reach out for his co-star.

 

Off of the set, it’s just as easy.

And that’s the thing.

They eat dinner together, and spend every other night lying sprawled on the other’s hotel room couch. This happens for an entire week of filming before the two of them realize that it is much easier to share the king-sized bed and ride the same car to arrive on set at five in the morning.

Tonight, it’s really no different.

Except they have been in the Conn-Pod rigs for hours. Even with their hair dry, they still feel wet and miserable on the inside as they crash on the couch with their takeout sprawled across the coffee table in front of them.

“I’m not getting into that _thing_ again.” Kazinsky points out, a matter of fact, as he turns on the television to one of those sci-fy channels he loves. Max would complain if he doesn’t have a soft spot for TV movies, so he just chuckles between mouthfuls of Thai noodles, and says. “I feel like my entire back is made of one big bruise.”

“Tell me about it.”

And when Max reminds the other of his scene, the one that has him getting back into one of those torture machines with Idris, Rob just shoves him in the hip with a bare foot from the other end of the couch and turns the television on a little louder.

They don’t fall asleep on the couch in a tangled heap to the sound of poorly CGI’d explosions, but it does take them a while before they make it on to the bed after the movie ends.

 

The sky outside is still dark behind the curtains when they wake up cold and pressed too close. They wake up with their fingers splayed against skin for warmth, knees tangled between legs, sheets bunched up beneath their bodies.

With the feeling like this is the most natural thing, his head tucked under Rob’s chin, Max feels a little ridiculous when he doesn’t pull away. But neither does Rob, and the two of them sort of make an awkward little shuffle until they are both under the covers.

Rob’s hands don’t move from where he has them touching the inch of skin, warm fingers splaying over where Max’s shirt has hiked up in his sleep. He doesn’t kick his leg from between his and it’s a fit he doesn’t understand. But it’s a fit regardless.

He closes his eyes in the dark again, and falls asleep just like that.

 

When they sleep together, they keep to their separate sides like they are still Herc and Chuck Hansen drawing lines down the center of the Conn-Pod even though they’ve been in each other’s heads for far longer. The bed is big enough for two, and it feels larger still when he blinks his eyes open and what he sees isn’t sunlight or the white pillowcase imprinted into the side of his face.

What he sees is Rob Kazinsky looking away like he’s been caught.

It isn’t so much that they can pass off as father and son, it is that they are playing exactly that. And he doesn’t know what that says about him when he wakes up in his bed with their mouths close enough to touch.

Instead, he reaches for the hand under his shirt and drags it to the morning wood he is sporting already. It’s not so much an invitation as it is long due. Max doesn’t quite know how to look at him, so he doesn’t. Their legs are still tangled beneath the sheets, and it takes little effort for Rob to draw him even closer so he can press himself against the hollow of Max’s hips.

“You’re sure?”

And Rob drives that question in with the heel of his palm, added pressure over his co-star’s erection. Max grunts, and he thinks this might be exactly what Rob wants when he turns his head to look him in the eye, if only for a second, if only to slide his eyes shut in the next when Rob finally pushes his underwear down, bare hand wrapping around his cock like he’s done it a million times.

Max is proud of himself, if for all the wrong reasons, when he lets out a huff of breath that isn’t at all like a moan. (Even if Rob claims otherwise, later, when they aren't so close.)

“How many times have I spent in this bed, and you’re only asking me _now_ , Kazinsky?”

“Fair point.”

Rob’s smile is all dimples, but that too disappears when Max reaches out for his fair share of skin. His shirt is rucked up, and Max follows Rob’s lead when he pushes his underwear down too. And the groan Rob lets out is all too satisfying when Max brings his own hand up to his mouth and licks a wide strip from the base of his palm to the tips of his fingers.

Their heads are ducked down as the sharp bone of their hips jerk into the motion of their hands. The obscene slide of their spit slicked cocks making their ears burn even when they are so far gone. Max pants heavily into the tight space between their close pressed bodies, and it’s warm, too warm and so _good_ when Rob pushes a knee up between his legs. Nudging him behind his balls with a little more force when he clutches a free hand around his bicep, a soundless keen deep in his throat as he kisses him.

It’s a surprise.

“Max—”

But he just cuts him off with another one, open mouthed and filthier than he’s kissed anyone for a long time now, both on and off screen. And it’s a surprise that has him kissing him through his orgasm, and then him in return, white spilling over their fists, one after the other.

When Max finally opens his eyes, their mouths are close enough to touch.

Instead, he tilts his head so their foreheads touch and the faint smiles over their faces are mirror images in the dark of their room. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, ankles tangled and the sheets having fallen halfway off the bed.

But it is Rob who breaks the silence as he sits up for the tissue box on the nightstand.

“Well, at least we aren’t _really_ related.”

And just for that, Max snorts, biting back a feral grin he knows he pulls off so well when Rob settles back against him on the bed.

“Maybe that’s half the fun for them.”

 

XXX Kuro


End file.
